Welcome!!!
This is Adonai DGod'z O'Rhymes, alsoknown as Dgodzorrhymes or simply Adonai DGod'z.


Illustrious poet, novelist, humourist, dramatist, critic and FEMINIST. The present President of the School of Languages, studying English Language and Yoruba at the prestigious Lagos State College of Education, now Adeniran Ogunsanya.


Birth name: Adonai Gideon Toluwalope
Birth Place: Lagos.
Parents: Late Afolayan, Olumide Solomon and living Atinuke Afolayan, nee Makinde
Occupation: Poet, Essayist, Dramaturge and Playwright.
Officicial web : www.adonaidgodz.blogspot.com
Major web: wwww,grasshopperwrites.com

Here are a few poems I like:

1. Ulysses by Alfred Lord Tennyson

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Matched with an agèd wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed
Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades2
Vexed the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honoured of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy3.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As though to breathe were life. Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this grey spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle—
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and through soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought
with me—
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles4,
And see the great Achilles5, whom we knew
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.


Alfred Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)


Ode to a Nightingale

by John Keats

MY heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, 5
But being too happy in thine happiness,
That thou, light-wingèd Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 10

O for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delvèd earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country-green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South! 15
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stainèd mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim: 20

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget

 Here is the poem I wrote on my matriculation:

INDIGNANTLY MATRICULATED
The air is still being rent in jubilant smiles
Several of them are joyous in distant miles,
Many called cooks and caterers
And some- other delicacy dealers,
It was indeed a deed of joy
But remaining me an alarmed boy,
It seems the three calendars
Should have gone to sleep like morning stars;
I can feel the gaiety in every face
But depression climbed the hills of solace
It was not as if anything happened
I didn’t feel anything happened;
Eyeing the celebrants
With fury that muted rants;
I just under my breath prayed for a roaring success
To gallop away to Tunex or Essex;
We human beings make ourselves happy
When the air is sombre and we ought not to be happy;
I only wore artificial smiles to bury
My lugubrious mood among so many;
Some even took their matriculation gowns home
And celebrated the weekends at home
And gallivanting in it across the streets
Where I hid and returned mine in provoking wits;
I could not cry
Than being shy
Just like their age
And a resounding younger sage
Turbulence and resentment fought
Hard in me like Biafran army in Pot Harcourt,
I was sad to be matriculating
At a tick I should not be graduating
But I could not argue with nature
But bore the silent and cutting torture
It’s a torture, a personal one,
It’s like the Great One
Of Israel when in the manger
And to the world appearing like a stranger;
Nature was not fair
It was vividly clear
But that there’s no smoke without fire
Held the pillars of my unending desire
And quest to bear the pains
And anger that flows in my veins;
But something always gets me pacified
The puzzle that gets most folks mystified
That I’ve found myself behind the deck
Even before those happy dons in speck
I was infuriated
I was matriculated
But infuriation could not rob my joys
I had to drink and sing with the boys.
-Adonai Dgodz

I wrote this on myself::

When I died an rose or So
 On the land like many a deserts; I
With my much pouch of pages roam by,
Searching for salubrious and serene floor;
Since there's no definite bank, digs nor shore
Except that doomed comfortless cramped corners
And where that acrid stench and waste manners
Or matters of all manners; and of sound
Of air, of water, of heat and the ground
O! Goodness! Lekker tush! And all forms,
Which you can fancy or more, and of all norms,
Shapes, styles, impurities and lubricious...
I roamed in crags conscious and unconscious!
In all weather, 'ven under the weather!
Mostly outdoors with no khaki nor leather,
With bites as stings of bees from mozzies,
The maladies from them that dizzies
Me; the flu, the uneasiness, the head aches,
The yawning, the strainings, gall and shakes...
The lack of quinine nor morsels nor hunks
Even of water, of old lad and bucks
    Yet of egg-headed hands of match
Or higher to impress my curious watch
Or serve as Stars, icon or driving drives
As Ulysses or Odysseus - their lives
...And of we three on that narrow sofa,
Couch or bed, what would you call it? Laughter?
Mocker, ridicule thee me not. Aside
That, the cramped areas! Too cramped not bit wide
And see: I squatted incessant squattings
In places inimical with chantings,
Loud chantings of Muhammedans, toxical
To my ears, absence of electrical...
Aggravates it more! Twenty four-seven;
...Moving out; no bus but 'nine - eleven'
Not a coach, not a truck, a bit nameless!
I am the Ulysses of this era!
The Telemachus of this arena!
But Telemachusity I'm denied,
The left sceptre to me and riches wide,
Drowned to death in the flood of childhood!
The storm, the heavy rain. No livelihood
To keep head above water, lakes or seas!
I'm ruined! Uprooted and starved to the less!
I'm in a more or less bottomless pit now,
Without water, 'haps I could float, But how
Can I? My loud cry for help seems not heard,
Some birds met me there; their trumpets too heard
Were not. I died, perhaps? But I arose
And roared aloud in a sea of dose
Or peel of silent supplications more
And yet we became refugees sore:
Of a jampacked wooden estate or so-
A place where hoe men used to plant and sow
Outskirts of 'Okomala' environs
Now under hammer to the well offs and secret dons;
Termites and ants ate our wooden  door,
My pages, leaves; made me striken sore;
Rats, cats, snakes and worms steal in and visit us,
In our self-built wooden room in ceaseless focus.
I died, perhaps. I shall soon arise,
Arise like the sun of morn with no vice
Which shines beyond the clouds, amidst all odds
With no socks, source, wires nor the light boards
Which takes away the poverty of darkness
Of the Earth to all its ends and stillness;
Lits the seas, deep oceans and rivers more
To the farthest unreachable ends core;
Even if I stumble a million times,
I shall arise and shock the world a billion times!
A posse of shutters and lens around,
All digital hands and interviews round
I had long died of pages starvation
I died of tutoring a decade or so
And lack of Washington, Cambridge and Yale
For absence of cowries and standers by
Till my spirit was invoked and greatly angered
To lit myself surds, literature and philosophy,
Sciences, English, Spanish, Hausa, Yoruba
I read more on histories, the Bible and Koran,
And driven by Milton, Keats and Soyinka,
Elliot, Wordsworth, Auden and great Shakespeare,
Taught literature, core as course and English:
Even off by heart, which I's never taught
I starved of clothings but fed well on pages
I inspire the Happy Isles in literature
And philosophy , to turn Europe upside down
Where my names shall be engraved 'midst Shakespeare
And my name shall be sung in many a town
For I roam rootlessly in lucubaration
I am the Odysseus of today!
And the Shakespeare and Eliot of these days!
Faraday kills me more! But I'm saved by a torch,
Early paternal demise kills me more
'Tis true without mendacities
I died and arose,
Its a pig's tour to the coasts.


                Dgodz